Perfect Stranger
A chill fog rolls through San Francisco, but across the bay the sun is hot. There’s an Italian restaurant near the water, with fans buffeting the warm aromas of brown butter and herbs in eddies within its three walls.
I’m at a table alone, sipping wine and narrowing my eyes at an ostentatious car and the musclebound twentysomething struggling to park it on the street outside. I’m distracted, baffled that anyone would purchase a Ferrari in blue, and that’s why it takes a moment before I notice her.
She’s tall, with long legs and long hair, pulled back to keep it off of her neck. Her dress is one of those gauzy-white summer things that looks modest until the light hits just so or the breeze blows across her, when I can see every contour of her body beneath.
She’s taking off her sunglasses and asking for a table and being told that no, regretfully, they’re full at the moment. Yes, even at the bar. As pleasant as it would be to watch her walk away, the wine and my scorn for the flashy, febrile impulses of younger men are making me yearn for proper boldness. I lift my hand to signal to the server.
The server listens and nods and then goes to murmur something to the host, who relays it to the woman. Then she’s looking at me straight on, with jewel-blue eyes and a blush pink mouth, and I raise my glass, an invitation. I can see her tactful assessment, and then she’s nodding and being escorted to my table and sitting in the chair opposite me.
She gives her name and I mine, and the abominable Ferrari is forgotten as I call for another glass and ask if I can pour for her. She accepts and sips and the sun glances off the white tablecloth and makes her downturned face glow as she studies her menu.
“Do you come here frequently?” I ask.
“When I can,” she replies. “You?”
The playful corner of her mouth turns up when she smiles, and I see the creasing there that speaks to maturity, to some experience. That’s what I like to see; I’ve long since lost interest in women who don’t yet know themselves. I can see that she has tales to tell and destinations in mind, her own plans and timelines. As we talk, I wonder if I might work my way into any of those.
Our easy flow of conversation is punctuated by courses, crusty bread with herbed olive oil and salads with soft white cheeses and pasta dishes with flavors delicate and bold intertwined. She isn’t shy about eating, and god it’s appealing.
She drinks her wine by lush mouthfuls and is unafraid to tear and dip her bread, and if a forkful of pasta leaves sauce on her mouth, her tongue will reach to taste it before her napkin swipes it away. This restaurant serves decadence, and we both take our fill.
Our meal ends and then we’re on the sidewalk, light painting the buildings around us in pinks as a ferry pulls out from the dock across the street, bound for the city. I offer to walk with her, and she accepts. Her hotel is near, she says, just down the street, but she’d appreciate the company. We walk and we talk and too soon we’re by her door, where conversation fails.
“There’s a rooftop bar,” she says, “if you’d like to join me for a drink. The view is stunning.”
I smile. “Okay.”
The view of rosy-hulled sailboats in rows at their docks and the hills stacked beyond is nothing against the easy way she moves around me, moves into my orbit, lays a hand on my arm as she laughs. The drink is a ritual, a formality, and once I’ve laid cash to spare on the bar we both leave our glasses unfinished.
“My room is this one,” she explains as we draw near. “Would you like to come in?”
I meet her eyes to show her how much I mean it. “Yes.”
She opens the door and turns to face me, her beckoning hand bringing me across the threshold. It’s a wide, airy room, one I’m sure is full of sunlight in the daytime. Right now it’s filled with the cool blue light of evening and the appealing warmth of lamplight. That’s all the assessment I need, because then she’s stepping in close, and the palpable attraction I’ve felt since spotting her in the restaurant is about to spill over, to become something for us to share.
Her hand comes to my cheek as she gives me a soft kiss, a prelude, and this close I catch her fragrance, something spicy and promising. She steps back and laces our fingers together, kicking her shoes to the side, and I follow suit as she pulls me to her balcony.
The sun has fallen farther now, enough that the streetlights are glowing and the sky is transitioning from pink to dark blue. She stands at her railing, arms spread along it, and I come up behind her, my fingertips leaving goosebumps where they trail from her wrist to her shoulder.
There I lift her silky hair out of the way so my mouth can taste the back of her neck, the soft skin that makes her gasp as my lips graze it. My nose nudges behind her ear as my hand strokes a sure path up from her hip, along her side.
She guides my hand to the zip under her arm, where a slow drag parts the fabric for my touch to slip beneath. I can pull her back against myself then, bring our bodies flush as I savor the smoothness of the skin from her ribcage to her hip. Her whole body seeks and shivers under my touch as my other hand cups her jaw and I look into her eyes.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
“You’re not bad,” she replies, and I can hear the tease and the challenge there, feel my blood jumping to show her how not bad I can be.
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